Figuring Out the Why
by bohowriter
Summary: When Sherlock returns to London after The Fall, there are two things he can't understand: why John was less than happy to learn he was alive, and why the silence in 221B can be so deafeningly loud. John, meanwhile, only wants to know why everything he believed to be true seems to be a lie. Set during "The Empty Hearse." (Canon)
1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:** I'm not sure yet if this will be a one-shot, or a series of reactions between Sherlock and John after the former's return. So, I'm not listing it as "Complete" just yet. If you have any opinions on whether it should continue or not, I would appreciate the feedback (plus any other comments, as always!).

Again, thanks to Ariane DeVere (Callie Sullivan) for her livejournal transcripts of _Sherlock._ Invaluable for fact-checking and referencing dialogue!

On with the show…

* * *

 **Figuring Out the Why**

"Mrs. Hudson!" a low baritone voice rang out through the otherwise silent building. A few moments later there was a sound of footsteps, and the older woman appeared in the doorway of the upstairs flat.

"Sherlock?" she called. "Everything all right, dear?"

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope. "Yes. Just need my phone."

Mrs. Hudson's brow furrowed. "Your phone? I don't have that."

"No, it's in my coat pocket. Only just across the table." His attention back on the microscope, Sherlock pointed at the coat draped just out of his reach, then rotated his hand palm up. Waiting. "Please," he added.

"Young man," began Mrs. Hudson firmly, "I am not your housekeeper, and I'm not your servant! If you need something, then stand up and get it yourself!"

Nonplussed, Sherlock looked up again. The response was not exactly what he was looking for. "It's not an impossible request," he argued. "John would've fetched it for me."

Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen, shaking her head. "Well, add 'John Watson' to the list of thing I'm not, then!" Behind Sherlock, she began collecting dirty, disposed dishes and depositing them into the sink. "Honestly, dear, you've been back only a few days and the flat already looks a mess."

"That was all John's department. Not mine."

"Well, maybe you should work at bringing John back, then."

Sherlock snapped his head up and spun around. "You honestly don't think I've tried?!" he barked.

The older woman jumped and turned to meet his gaze, her eyes wide and frightful. Sherlock's face immediately softened when he saw her reaction. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Really, I am. But I've told you: I've spoken with John and he's—"

"Not interested in hearing your apology. I know, dear." The dishes all in the sink, Mrs. Hudson reached down and stroked Sherlock's hair. Unconsciously he leaned into her touch: aside from his mother, she was the only person whose physical affection he would instinctively return.

"I don't understand why," Sherlock admitted, trying to keep his voice even. "Why can't we just…go back to how things were?"

Mrs. Hudson leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. "Not my place to say, dear. You need to figure this out on your own. And for that, you need to talk to John." With one more stroke of Sherlock's hair, Mrs. Hudson turned and left the flat.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John wouldn't talk to him, so that idea was out. And figure _what_ out? He'd faked his death to save John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade's lives. For two years, he'd worked destroying Moriarty's network, ensuring their safety. Then he had come back. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had been overjoyed to see him. But John? Well, Sherlock's nose was still sore from John's volatile reaction to what Sherlock had (wrongly) anticipated as a joyous reunion.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, and in the silence of the flat, the slight noise took on a deafening echo. That was something new he'd noticed upon his return. During the day, Mycroft would come by, or Lestrade would ring, and he'd have clients coming and going. Mrs. Hudson would be in and out, checking on him, and commotion from the street floated up. Life was noisy as usual. But the nights, he'd noticed, were somehow both quieter and louder now. The new silence in the flat amplified every little sound, to where Sherlock could hear his every breath now, his every footstep.

He'd never noticed such loud stillness before, not with John around. When John was there, when the world quieted down, there was sometimes yelling and sometimes laughter and mostly conversations. The telly stayed on more. Even when Sherlock needed silence, John still made his own sounds of life: walking, eating, even breathing. Sherlock could tell how John's day at surgery went just by the way he breathed when he came through the door ( _good day, he was breathing quicker from jogging up the stairs; bad day, he was breathing evenly from walking slowly_ ). Now, the only noise until sunrise was what Sherlock made himself. It was enough to drive a man mad, and he'd only been there for two nights.

 _Wonder what two years would've been like, then?_ a voice in his head asked, and Sherlock blinked in surprise. Nights like this, with the screaming silence. Every night, for two years. That's what it would've been like for John, whether at Baker Street or elsewhere. A deafening quiet after so much noise and life. Every sound one man could make amplified to a dull roar.

That might be…a bit not good for a person, Sherlock reckoned. That might change the way they feel about things. But _why_?

Sherlock rubbed his eyes tiredly. This was the trouble with emotions. Identifying the _how_ and _who_ of human nature was his job. A crime happened. Who did it and how? Easy enough. The _why_? That bit was harder. Usually he talked to John about such matters, because John could explain emotions. But John wasn't there, so Sherlock was going to have to solve this on his own.

The detective closed his eyes, going deep inside his mind and entering his Mind Palace. He kept "copies" of some of his most useful acquaintances there. Molly, for one, and though he'd never admit it, Mycroft was another. Sherlock never needed a copy of John, because John was always around in reality. The wing for information on John Watson was larger than any other place in the Mind Palace (even his section for tobacco ash), but still the real John Watson was much more useful than any version Sherlock could create internally. But without the actual living, breathing man, a copy, based on everything Sherlock knew about his friend, would have to do.

Sherlock visualized them both at 221B, in their chairs, and when John appeared he was clean-shaven ( _of course_ ).

"Why am I here?" he asked testily. "You know I moved out."

"I thought it would be more comfortable," Sherlock replied.

"Ever heard of 'neutral ground'? You're gonna have a row with someone, you meet on neutral ground."

"Are we going to have a row? I hadn't planned on it myself. I only wanted to talk."

John shook his head in exasperation, and Sherlock inwardly noted he had seen that gesture far too many times. It was nearly exact.

"Honestly, Sherlock, I don't see how this is going to help anything."

"John, I need you," Sherlock emphasized his words, hoping to at least get through to his own image of his friend. "And London needs us both. The sooner I understand what happened between us and figure out how to fix it, the sooner we can get back to The Work."

"Do you think I still care about The Work?!" John yelled. "Did I seem at all interested in returning here," he gestured to the flat, "in returning to the life _you_ left behind? 'Coz that's why I left it behind, too!"

Sherlock shook his head in defense. "I didn't want to leave it behind. I didn't want to leave _you_ behind. I told you: I _had_ to do it. Moriarty gave me no choice—"

"No, you idiot," John interjected. "I'm not angry because of why you did it. You know I'd come round, that I'd understand after a while."

Sherlock knew the hurt was showing through on his face. But this all being internal, it was fine for now. "That is what I _thought_. I thought you'd understand. I did this for you, for all of you, so why are you angry?"

John turned his head away for a moment, breathing slowly. When he looked back, Sherlock saw he was fighting tears. But that couldn't be right. Sherlock had never seen John cry before. Well, strike that: he had seen John cry at his grave once. But Sherlock had been behind John, and so he only recognized the visuals: slumped back, hand shielding face, shoulders shaking irregularly. But fortunately Sherlock had been spared from seeing John's face. So how could he know what John looked like in such a state?

"It's not _why_ you did it, Sherlock," John's breaking voice brought him back to the moment. "It's _how_ you chose to come back into my life."

The scene shifted from Baker Street to the moment from the restaurant a few days prior, and Sherlock could see their reunion in third person. He could see the moment John finally looked up and saw the face of his dead friend for the first time in two years. He saw the moment his friend's brain recognized Sherlock, creating a clash of information. _Sherlock is dead. But Sherlock is also standing in front of me?_

Before, Sherlock had beamed at John's confusion. He'd been proud of the trick he had pulled off. It turned out he'd _seen but not observed_ , as he was wont to chastise others.

But this time, he observed as John's carefully constructed resolve shattered.

Because he knew what to expect now, Sherlock saw—actually _saw_ —John's face go from shock to hurt to despair. Sherlock watched John look away and then back up, tears swimming in his eyes, and realized _that_ was how he knew what John looked like when he was desperately trying not to cry. The grief was quickly transformed into anger, but the moment had been there. It had still happened.

And Sherlock was the one to cause it.

Again.

As the scene at the restaurant unfolded, Sherlock sensed Mind-Palace-John coming to stand by his side. He couldn't look over, not now. Sherlock didn't understand emotion, but he understood pain and he was currently feeling it, somewhere in the vicinity of his ribcage. In the past he might have brushed it off as a possible work-related injury. Now he could recognize it as the same pain he'd felt when he rang John from the rooftop of St. Bart's. Guilt. Regret. Sadness. He'd forgotten in his time abroad, and it'd all but disappeared the night he knew he would see his friend again.

Now he remembered the feeling, and his voice was thick when he spoke: "I didn't realize."

"You show up like that, surprise me in public, and it's like it was all a joke to you," John said softly, looking aged beyond his years even without the mustache. "Like what I went through the past two years was nothing. Like thinking every day I watched you die…that I couldn't do anything to help…that it didn't matter to you."

"It wasn't…I didn't…" Words failed Sherlock while the past played on like a film reel. Sherlock-the-waiter was rubbing his fake mustache off now, laughing at John's expression. Sherlock gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and willed the scene away. When he opened his eyes again, he and John were back at Baker Street. Sherlock took a deep breath and finally met his friend's gaze.

"I am sorry, John. I am _so_ sorry."

John nodded once, quickly, and his face changed. It was closer to the John he knew before—not totally there, but almost.

"If you really mean that, then find a way to say it," he said firmly. "To the real me."

Sherlock nodded. "I will. I promise."

"I won't want to listen to you," John added. "You know I won't. You'll have to make me."

"I'll find a way."

Sherlock reached across the divide and offered his hand. John met him halfway and grasped his hand firmly. A handshake for a promise. The sensation stayed with Sherlock as he opened his eyes and found himself still sitting in 221B, left alone in the maddening silence of a now one-person flat.


	2. John

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the initial responses on Chapter 1! I'm adding one more chapter after this, which will tie the two together back to what we saw in "The Empty Hearse." This is the first time I have published something without having the whole thing written out (roughly), so I'm sorry for the delay in this chapter. The last chapter will be up much quicker. Slight language in this chapter and the next.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

* * *

John lay in bed beside Mary, restless, wishing for the hours to pass. He didn't like lying awake, left only with his thoughts. Not tonight. He focused on his breathing, hoping to calm his mind against the earlier shock.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. He had watched Sherlock die. He had watched Sherlock be buried. He had visited Sherlock's grave for two years. And now, Sherlock Holmes was alive. Because Sherlock Holmes had never been dead. Sherlock Holmes had returned, dressed as a French waiter, and ruined his plans of proposing to Mary.

 _Sherlock Holmes was alive_.

John still couldn't wrap his mind around it. He'd told Sherlock he didn't care how he'd faked his death, he only cared _why_ , but the answer to that question had basically been avoided. Then John head-butted Sherlock and the reunion was over.

The questions, however, remained. _Why_ had John been left out? _Why_ had Sherlock kept him in the dark? _Why_ had he allowed his best friend to suffer for two years?

John squeezed his eyes shut tightly, ignoring the stinging growing behind the lids. He hadn't cried over losing Sherlock in a long time. As with any loss, although time didn't provide answers, it did numb the pain into something manageable. Now, he felt as raw as the first week after watching his best friend jump to his (supposed) death.

But he would _not_ shed any more tears over Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John counted his breaths and willed himself to sleep. He wouldn't get any answers like this, not tonight. And maybe he didn't want them at all. All he could hope for now was to escape.

Unfortunately, the moment John began to dream, Sherlock was the first person he saw.

They were at Baker Street, of course, sitting in their chairs. "No," John groaned, shaking his head angrily. "I want to sleep to _escape_ you, not to see more of you!"

"But this is important, John," Sherlock said gently. "You know it is. Otherwise, you wouldn't be dreaming of me."

"Can't you just leave me alone? Haven't you done enough already?"

Sherlock sighed. "We need to talk about why this happened."

"And what good will that do? You're not the real him; you're just in my head. And I don't _know_ why he did it, so I can't make sense of it here."

"Wrong." Sherlock stood from his chair and began to pace. "This is the closest thing you have to a Mind Palace. You're sleeping, and you know you're dreaming, so you can access memories and information you think are lost. We can make sense of it. But we have to do this now, and quickly, before you wake."

John looked up at Sherlock. "That's what you told me years ago. You were the one who taught me that."

Sherlock smiled. "See? It's working already. Now think, John. Why did I do it?"

"I told you that I don't _know_ , you arsehole."

"Yes, you do. You have the information available. Why would I make you think I was dead?"

"Because you're a sociopath?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You never believed that was true."

John sighed. His brain apparently wouldn't quiet, so he may as well play along. "Because…you didn't trust me."

If John didn't know he was dreaming before, he knew it now. Sherlock's face was full of hurt at that comment: not for him, but for John. "You really think that?" he asked.

"Yes…no…I don't know." John sighed sadly, placing his head in his hands. "You didn't trust me, or you didn't need me. That's what I think. And either option is too awful to accept."

"Because…?"

"Because it means the years before were all a lie," John hissed. How could he feel so much pain in a dream? "Because it means I trusted you and needed you, and I thought it went both ways. But I was just being stupid."

Sherlock stopped pacing and knelt in front of John. "If I didn't trust you, why would you be the first person I tracked down once I returned to London?" he asked quietly. "If I didn't need you, why would I come back to you for help?"

John sat silently, staring at the floor.

"I could have stayed away, John. Working on my own for two years, I could have come back to London and continued on without you. Clearly I wanted and needed you with me. So why did I let you think I was dead before?"

"Because…" John began slowly. "Because if I didn't believe you were dead…"

Sherlock returned to his chair, patiently waiting.

John finally looked up and met his gaze. "If I didn't believe you were dead, by your own hand…if I didn't believe you were fake…I would have stayed involved. You were ending the story. You were protecting me somehow."

Sherlock didn't react. Of course not; it wasn't really Sherlock.

John continued. "Moriarty was dead, but there were others. Enough to where it took you years to take them all down. So if you had to jump, and I had to believe it…I was in danger."

Suddenly Moriarty was there, a flash of him from that night at the pool, hissing to Sherlock, "I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

Burn someone's heart out. And how was that done? By hurting the people closest to them. "We were all in danger," whispered John hoarsely.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Sounds logical."

John shook his head incredulously. " _None_ of this is logical, mate."

"It's not, but that's because emotions are involved. That's what this all stemmed from."

"And that's why you came back the way you did. Because you'd succeeded and we were all safe now." John paused. "You were happy. You weren't trying to hurt me."

Another eyebrow raise as a response.

John sighed, leaned back in his chair. "Will I remember any of this? When I wake up?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in his throat. "Doubtful. Likely not everything, at least. But if you decide to listen to me, that decision will take root. You'll be a bit more understanding. You won't worry so much about the _why_ , because you'll already know." He paused. "Even if you don't remember it."

John nodded. "Right. Yeah, right."

Sherlock steepled his fingers and regarded John over the tips. "How do you truly feel about my return? Beyond the anger and shock?"

"I'm…"John's voice trailed off as he searched for the words. "I'm still angry, definitely. But I'm so glad to know you're alive. And you're home." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'm _so_ fucking glad."

"Then you need to say that. To the real me."

John nodded. He was feeling more relaxed, and the room was becoming fainter. He knew he was slipping into a proper, deep sleep. "I'll find a way," he said before the image of Sherlock disappeared. His voice echoed in his ears as his mind settled: a promise to a dream of a man back from the dead.


	3. Sherlock Again

**Author's note:** final chapter! Thanks for reading, and any feedback is, as always, very much appreciated.

* * *

Just past the train carriage which was actually a bomb meant to blow up Parliament, Sherlock was doubled-over, handkerchief pressed to his nose. Getting head-butted in the face hurt, yes. But then getting punched in the nose only a few days later hurt even worse.

"It had only begun to heal, John!" the detective bellowed, though he knew it was muffled due to his current position.

Not that John hadn't had reason to punch him. Again.

 _I always hear "Punch me in the face" when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext._

 **Earlier That Night**

The carriage itself was the bomb, and he and John were standing in the middle of it. They'd been in many dangerous situations together, but Sherlock could say for certainty that this was a first. Possibly a last, too, if he couldn't find the off-switch. He hoped these were the cautious types of terrorists, the ones who knew bombs needed a fail-safe just in case a plan had to be aborted.

Sherlock hadn't planned it, but once it was discovered that the carriage was the bomb, he quickly realized that he could foil the plot _and_ properly apologize to John in a situation where the doctor would have no choice but to listen. Killing two birds with one stone, as it were…or maybe "killing" wasn't the best verb given the circumstances. Though there was nothing else you could do with two birds and a stone, so perhaps the whole analogy was inappropriate when standing inside a train carriage filled with explosives.

Sherlock was going to save the world twice. That was the whole of it.

 _Step one: save London. This was the easy part._

While John's calm demeanor slowly transitioned from anger to rising panic, the World's Only Consulting Detective faked knowing nothing about bombs and lied about calling the police (secretly, he hoped they held off long enough to give him time). He flailed about the main device, finally locating the off switch. Grinning briefly, out of sight from John, he shut it off. The time stopped at 1:29.

One-in-twenty-nine. Sherlock hoped the odds for the next bit were better than that.

 _Step two: save himself. Potentially much more risky._

In order to properly convince John he needed to listen, especially given the (presumed) circumstances, Sherlock knew he would have to rely on emotions, which meant acting. Though he'd done this routine in front of John before, so he could only hope his friend wouldn't notice.

Sherlock looked up at John from his place on the floor. "I'm sorry," he murmured, slowly working himself into tears. "I can't do it, John. I don't know how." He took a breath. "Forgive me?"

From across the carriage, John looked on in shock. "What?"

Becoming more emotional, Sherlock clasped his hands together, almost begging. "Please, John, forgive me. For all the hurt I have caused you…"

John shook his head furiously, refusing to believe, claiming it to all be a trick. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was denial about being in the situation, not wanting to accept imminent death, or because John truly didn't trust his (ex?) friend any longer. Sherlock hoped it was the former; the latter was too hard to handle.

"You're just trying to make me say something nice," John choked out. "It's just to make you look good, even though you behaved like—"

His voice cut off and he turned away. This time, Sherlock recognized the pain in his friend's face, and felt the ache in his chest in response. He moved away from the (secretly) disabled bomb and sat in the nearby seat, giving John time to compose himself while trying to keep a reign on his own demeanor. Because what was odd, Sherlock thought, was how natural this all felt, not like an act at all. Usually emotion in his acting was forced, but with no real feeling on his part. He could conjure up tears at will to trick and manipulate people. This time, he didn't feel he was trying very hard at all. His physical reactions were aligning with his mental and (dare he even admit it) emotional state.

It was uncomfortable, this honesty, but it also seemed to be working.

"I find it difficult," John was saying now, his voice rough. "I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. You were the best and wisest man that I have ever known. Yes, of course I forgive you," John concluded firmly. And with that, he closed his eyes and stood firm.

Sherlock leaned forward, tears spilling effortlessly from his eyes. His head ducked, he smiled, then choked out a soft laugh (sounding suspiciously like a sob) in relief. It was fine. It was all going to be fine. He started to laugh a little louder, a little more frantically, and soon John had opened his eyes, likely either assuming the train had transported the both of them to the same afterlife, or realizing that they were still stuck together on earth.

Sherlock had tried to stop laughing long enough to explain, while John swore at him repeatedly.

"There's an off switch! There's always an off switch!"

And for a moment, everything was as it used to be.

Then they had exited the carriage, passed the police, with Sherlock feeling better than he had in a long time (years, if he were being truthful, and it was a night for that, apparently). He had turned to share this with John, and found his face connecting with John's fist. Then he'd been doubled over, handkerchief to nose, moaning.

"I said I was sorry!" he cried. "For everything! I meant that part."

In lieu of a response, he felt John crash into him from the side, so forcefully that they both almost lost their balance. Sherlock tensed, preparing for another physical altercation, until he realized John was hugging him. Tightly and uncomfortably and awkwardly, given their positioning.

Sherlock's arms were trapped against his face, so he couldn't return the hug even if he wanted to. Which, oddly, he thought he might. John Watson was officially added to the list of "People Whose Touch was Tolerated," along with Mummy and Mrs. Hudson (even if John's touch sometimes included "bleeding" as a side effect). Wonders never ceased.

"I am still so angry at you," John growled, his face pressed against Sherlock's shoulder. "I bloody hate you for what you did."

"I know," he replied, his voice thick from the nose injury. "I am so sorry, John."

John tightened his grip somehow. "And I am so, _so_ fucking glad you are alive."

With that, John shoved Sherlock away, meeting his gaze once they were apart. The older man's face was trying to remain how it'd looked since Sherlock's return. Hard and distant. But the façade was cracking, now, and Sherlock could see his old friend underneath.

Sherlock grinned and straightened up. "Let's get home," he said. He knew the word meant a different place for both men. But with things righted between them, Baker Street would feel more comfortable, even in the new silence. More like home.

As they left the tunnel, Sherlock reflected on the night. Apologizing to your friend in public by surprising him? Bit not good. Apologizing to your friend alone by letting him think he was going to die? Effective.

Sherlock would have to file that knowledge away in the Mind Palace. He didn't understand why it worked, not really. But after all, that was John's department.


End file.
